


A Secret Unmasked

by Illegible_Scribble



Series: 31 Days of Frodo/Sam, 2018 [14]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Kinktober 2018, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illegible_Scribble/pseuds/Illegible_Scribble
Summary: In the midst of his peeping through Frodo's affairs - to fulfill his obligations to the Conspiracy - Sam stumbles across a secret that - like many - he wasn't supposed to find. However, revealing its discovery to Frodo has a more pleasant result than he would've first guessed.





	A Secret Unmasked

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [Kinktober's](https://www.pillowfort.io/posts/112710) prompt for Day #14: Masturbation.

One thing Sam Gamgee would never have considered himself was a sneak – or worse, a _spy_ – much less a dreadful _peeper_ , as Merry and Pippin loosely advised he oughtn't become, unless the circumstances were dire.

One evening, nearing the end of April, they cornered him outside The Ivy Bush, and sequestered him off to a private spot down by the Water, asking him what in the world was the matter with Frodo. All of those long talks in secret with Gandalf, becoming almost amiable to the Sackville-Bagginses, and beginning to get misty-eyed and reminiscent whenever he was visiting a tavern. “Gandalf's not told him he's dying, is he?” Pippin had asked.

“Or is it Bilbo? Is anyone dying? Another dragon to slay?” Merry had posed.

Sam was all a-stutter and blushing furiously within minutes of their questions. He had sworn to Gandalf he'd keep all the business of the Ring and Frodo's necessary flight a dead secret, lest he be turned into a toad – and he tried to hint this to Frodo's cousins, but they weren't having it. Merry was the first onto the right lead, and asked seriously, “He's leaving, isn't he? Where to? Is it dangerous?”

Sam wrung his hands and ducked his head, still trying to play somewhat innocent. “A-aye, afore the year's out. To Rivendell, Gandalf's suggested.”

“Why?” Pippin asked.

“As to that- ehm,” Sam shifted from foot to foot, fidgeting and trying to think of something clever to say. He knew it was hopeless – his name meant halfwit for a reason – but he'd _promised_ to both Frodo and Gandalf he wouldn't say anything to anyone. “T'is- complicated-”

“-Sam,” Merry interrupted him, putting a hand on his shoulder, “whatever it is, we want to help. If Frodo's getting nice to the S.-B.s and Gandalf's involved, it's got to be serious. We care about him, and we're worried for him; we don't want him flying off into danger alone.”

“And even the Road to Rivendell isn't easy these days.” Pippin added. “I've heard talk from the Bounders that queer folk are settling in to Bree, and from time to time they've spotted Big Folk walking our borders. You might even say it's not safe, especially for someone alone.”

“Oh, I'm going with him!” Sam blurted, and clapped his hand over his mouth. _Samwise, you bloody-blasted ninnyhammer! You wasn't even supposed to say as much as that!_ “T-to see the Elves, you understand!” he sputtered, trying to salvage what he could.

Merry and Pippin shared a glance, before looking at Sam as though he were a lost lamb, and they wolves just considering their hunger. “So you're in on it? Enough to be going, too?” Pippin prompted. “Gandalf doesn't usually suggest extra baggage; I don't think it's just to see Elves, Sam.”

“And Gandalf wouldn't send ignorant baggage into danger,” Merry continued, “more or less he'd tell you both what you're in for. Why Rivendell, Sam? We just want to help Frodo.”

Sam was on the verge of tears for being found out, but gently Merry and Pippin consoled him, promising they wouldn't tell another soul. Sam was still skeptical – the bigger a secret got, the harder it was to keep – but Merry and Pippin were Frodo's favorite cousins. Surely it would be safe to tell them? In any case, Sam had no other choice, now.

He looked all about them, then, and beckoned them close, saying in a low voice, “As isn't sommat we ought to be talking about when ears are near to listen.”

He suggested they relocate to beneath the Party Tree, to which was unanimously agreed – once there, and assured they were alone, Sam told them everything he knew. No details were left out, for Merry and Pippin prompted him to nearly midnight for every last detail.

By the time Sam had betrayed every secret of his master's journey, he was slumped – exhausted – against the trunk, while Merry and Pippin sat back in contemplation, digesting all they'd just heard.

After a long while, Merry sat forward again. “Thank you, Sam. I knew there was always something more to Bilbo's old ring, but... I'd never expected it would be something so dreadful.”

Pippin and Sam both looked surprised. “You knew? About the Ring?” the former asked.

Merry shrugged. “One time, when I saw him and he didn't see me, we both heard the S.-B.s coming down the road. He slipped something gold and shining from his pocket, and vanished right where he stood. Didn't reappear until after they were long gone, and there again was that flash of gold.

“I've even had a peek at his Red Book, and from the tales he's told of his dragon adventure, at once it made a great deal more sense how he'd gotten through it all, if he'd had a trinket that made him invisible.”

“And a look at the Red Book, too!” Sam cried, “If you two aren't the biggest rascals I ever did see!”

Pippin gave Sam an apologetic look, and patted his hand. “I think you're about to see a third afore long, Sam, if Merry's thinking what I'm thinking.”

Sam stiffened with horror as two conspiratory pairs of eyes settled on him. “As we said before, Sam, we want to help Frodo.” Merry took Sam's other hand, and gave it a confident squeeze. “You're our best hope of letting us help. If he knows, he'll take off without a word, not wanting to put us in trouble.

“You know the most, and near enough you're the perfect ear to listen and tell us everything that's happening. We'll plan accordingly, however it works out. We want to go with you.”

“Four sets of eyes, ears and hands are better than two,” added Pippin, “if he finds out too early, Frodo won't see it our way, but we'll be more useful than he knows.”

Sam was little better than distressed about the entire idea, but the sincerity of Frodo's cousins to his plight moved his heart. In truth, Sam was afraid, too; he was excited to see the Elves, of course, but he'd never been so far as The Yale, even, and going all the way beyond the Shire out into the Wild frightened him. The notion that Merry and Pippin so much wanted to go with them offered the hopeful promise of safety in numbers, even if it would in the end upset Frodo. “Don't know how dangerous it'll all be.” he warned. “Gandalf's said the Enemy has more spies than you could guess, and it's likely they'll be right nasty.”

Pippin seemed to blanch a little, but Merry looked determined, and brave – courageous, even. “No more dangerous for all of us than you two on your own.

“Frodo's been my favorite cousin ever since Bilbo left, and from the sounds of it, this is bigger than all of us, or even the Shire. He's not facing it on his own.”

At his cousin's words, Pippin's spirits and Tookish mettle rose as well. “All for one, and one for all, as you might say. Will you help us, help Frodo, Sam?”

Sam nervously looked between the two, finding he was tying his own fingers in knots with anxiety. “And- you just want me to listen and say what I hear?”

Merry nodded. “The Chief Informant of our Conspiracy. We'll handle all the plan-making and carrying-out. You just don't let Frodo know a thing about it, but tell us every bit of news you hear about his plans.”

Reluctantly, Sam agreed, and the three of them shook hands. Their conspiracy formed, they went back up to Bag End for the night, Sam feeling almost sick with nerves and guilt, for now – to his horror – he'd become the very dropper of eaves Gandalf had accused him of. In the future, to nearly be a peeper, even.

 

–

 

To Sam's later surprise, spying on Frodo wasn't nearly so hard as he'd been afraid it would be. He did feel terribly guilty, however, when he found all the drawers of Frodo's desk were unlocked – because he trusted Sam, and now Sam was taking advantage of that.

Fairly often he was brought in to talks with Gandalf, too (before he went away), where he learned in more detail the history of the Ring, what its ultimate fate might be, and Frodo's best choices to take it from the Shire. He was a trusted confidant, and here he was going and blabbering everything to a Brandybuck and a Took.

He did keep to the oath of the Conspiracy, however, and later discovered – before Frodo said aloud to anyone – that he was going to sell Bag End.

As Merry and Pippin had prompted him, Sam had begun carefully leafing through Frodo's desk while he was out, looking for any telling documents that would tell of his future plans. It had floored Sam so much he even staggered, when he found a draft of Frodo's bill of sale to the Sackville-Bagginses for Bag End, including a rough estimate and an outline of all provisos that would be included.

Sam was not surprised – but still heartbroken – when within the next few days, an appraiser indeed came to the smial, and began tallying what he estimated would be a fair value for it and all its property.

Not everything Sam found in his nosing was all together depressing, however. Some days after he had found the draft, he'd been almost moping in a later search of the desk, until he found the bottom drawer on the right-hand side was stuck. He looked around guiltily to ensure no one was in the smial (he knew full well there wasn't, but encountering this new layer of apparent privacy compelled him to make sure), before gently wriggling it. As it turned out, it wasn't locked – only stuck – and Sam breathed a great sigh of relief when it came free undamaged.

He supposed Frodo was likely to keep rather precious documents in the sticky drawer, seeing as it would be a deterrent for any nosy hobbits like himself from trying too hard at.

To Sam's surprise, there was only one thing in the drawer – a leather-bound notebook, dyed a few shades of red, calling to mind old Bilbo's Red Book.

At once, Sam was horrified with himself, thinking he'd found Frodo's private journal – for looking in there would be the worst violation of his master's privacy imaginable.

Though, after some moments of Gandalf not appearing from thin air to turn him into a toad as punishment, Sam began to calm, and curiosity blossomed inside him. After all, this was exactly the sort of thing that would give Merry and Pippin the most valuable information, if it was all Frodo's thoughts exactly. Not to mention, Sam was plainly curious to know what went on in his master's head, himself.

So, he picked up the notebook, and thoughtfully settled at Frodo's desk to leaf through it. He thought the last entries would likely have the most useful information, but thought to check the beginning, at least to see when the first entry had been logged, to estimate how old and therefor useful it would be.

His eyes nearly fell from his head to see the first words of the book to be in fancy script, and reading, ' _My Dearest Samwise,_ '.

In an instant, he snapped the book shut with a _wham_ , blushing furiously in shock. Surely he must've read it wrong, and it said something completely different. Or perhaps there was another Samwise Frodo knew; one so important as to start a journal with his name, and close enough to call him 'Dearest'. It certainly couldn't be Samwise _Gamgee_ ; to his recall, no one had called him such a thing since he'd been a lad.

A great part of him wanted to stuff the book back into the drawer and forget about it for all eternity, but curiosity seized him once more, and proved to have the upper hand.

His movements were tentative and careful – as if he were opening a box that held an angry squirrel – but in time he opened the book all the way again.

He'd read it as it was. The first words were, ' _My Dearest Samwise_ '.

In a heady rush he skimmed the page, and once he reached the bottom he stopped to blink, before returning to the beginning with attentive fervor. Then, at the end for the second time, he felt as though the chair he sat in was about to sink through the floor into an ocean of starlight.

It was a love letter – or near enough a draft of one. As he read it, Sam was struck dumb with awe, and disbelieving tears began to gather on his lashes.

 

_My Dearest Samwise,_

_For the longest while it has been the greatest and most secret desire of my heart, to tell you in as many ways as I may – or even one, if it would suffice to convey the true depth of my feeling – that I adore you._

_Your kindness to all living creatures – flora, fauna, and hobbits alike – your gentle words of encouragement, and unyielding hope that tomorrow will be better, all hold me spellbound for how they tell the great size of your heart. I know so few that offer similar such generosity – endless, as I can see – to those that need a helping hand, or a kind word on a dark day, or patience, a listening ear and a sturdy shoulder; or a guiding hand and encouraging words. I know only one that offers it freely – without asking for thanks – to the remarkable degree that you do._

_Your wit – whatever you may say of it – delights me to no end. You take in the tales read and told to you as a flower soaks up sunlight and rain, but instead of flourishing vibrant petals, you blossom with new and beautiful ideas. Your poems and songs hold brilliant turns of phrase, and I find most often they speak of the Shire's true heart, and deepest loves of things that grow. But, also I see in your words, a description and admiration of beauty so far and above us, it moves me beyond describable thought to read them._

_Your strength is so special, in a way rare to creatures big and small; for it is not founded in your physical abilities alone, but is bolstered also by your mind and heart. You use it for the good of others, carrying things or people when they cannot carry themselves; to hold yourself or others back from acts of anger and impulse; and to remain endlessly hopeful no matter the darkness of a circumstance. In all of these ways, you astound and enamor me._

_For years now, I've found myself taken with you – at first I thought only how much I adored having such a fine companion near most every day._

_However, in more recent months, I've realized my heart seizes with a deeper admiration, every time I lay eyes upon you._

_You are brilliant and gentle, and I dream often of feeling your soft touch to my cheek, and hearing your words weave a dream of a far-off and beautiful place you've read of, or made up in your head._

_Foremost are you my favorite hobbit of my kin and friends, and your company is dear to me. Were I to know your face in the first moments of my waking each morning, I would be blessed with such fortune to seek no other pleasures in the day, but for your voice and touch._

_I fear my courage too weak to ever present you with these feelings, and so I commit them here to a book your eyes shall never grace._

_I think I am to you as ever I was; a guide, and story-peddler of lands of the Wild and Ages of old – and perhaps if I am so good a hobbit now, I hope a friend as well. Which is something I would not seek to ruin by asking more from you than you desire to give._

_So I hold my peace, and treasure now the bond of friendship we share. It is worth more to me than all the treasures of the Dwarven hoards, or the Silmarils lost now to our world._

_Love,_  
_Frodo_

 

Very slowly, Sam leaned back at the chair, staring blankly ahead of him, not even seeing anything before his mind's eye.

All he could articulate to himself (and at even that, he struggled) was the great feeling of division inside him; a part of him wanted to read the letter again and again to ensure he truly understood; another wondered dumbly if perhaps Frodo knew another Samwise; the final part was so delighted it sat stupid in shock.

He couldn't really process what he'd just read to any final, comprehensible format. At least, not the bulk of the letter; the final words on the page rang clearly like a great bell being rung in his head: _Love, Frodo. Frodo, love. Frodo loves... me._

Still in a stupor, Sam tilted forward to look again at the book. In a slowly clearing daze, he leafed through the pages, finding it was well-filled with a great deal of text, most of it at a glance more love letters destined never to be sent. He saw they grew shorter as the entries continued, and at times there was even a... drawing, or several to a page, of Sam himself in ink. Usually it was his profile, or a bust in some way, but a handful – to his embarrassment – were depictions of him working in the garden, most often without a shirt.

Delving further into the book brought even shorter scraps of text, and Sam began to see passionate words such as 'suck', 'squeeze', 'rub' and 'lick'. In dazed wonder he read the length of several snatches, and found they detailed daydreams of Frodo's; little scenarios he'd thought of, of various ways he would react, if Sam came to him, wanting.

Sam was most taken by the act in which he and Frodo would be star gazing, and a star fell above them, prompting someone to wish upon it. In the first draft – the longest, which Sam read – it was Frodo that made the wish, and Sam took a guess if he could make it come true. Which he did, by offering Frodo a kiss, after which they coupled there under the stars.

Sam was dimly aware he was still skimming pages, until he came to the very last entry, which was a profile view of himself and Frodo, facing one another with their foreheads together, and smiling lovingly. Above it was written, 'More together than either alone.'

Once more, Sam leaned back and for a very long while, sat in utter silence, the final illustration still open in front of him. His mind was reeling with more power than Sandyman's mill would ever produce in its lifetime – but so much so Sam was worried the wheel would go flying off.

Frodo adored him so much to imagine them together in a plethora of ways; nearly filling a book with love letters, illustrations and dreams.

Frodo _loved_ him.

That was a possibility Sam had never anticipated. Frodo had never said a word, and only on the darkest of nights – when Sam knew he wouldn't be disturbed – did he dare dream of it himself.

A number of lasses and the rare lad had caught his fancy through the years, though none he knew so well he would dare say he _loved_.

If love was unending devotion, and a lifelong quest to make another happy – for you so loved their smile, and seeing them glowing with delight – why then, Sam did love Frodo. That was why he had gotten entangled in this entire eavesdropping and Conspiracy businesses, for he wanted to know Frodo's troubles, and to do what he could to ease them.

There was that, for a pure and base of love – but it was not all Sam kept secret in his heart.

To him, Frodo was plainly the most brilliant and wise hobbit in all of the Shire, and with his midnight hair and sky-blue eyes, the most profoundly beautiful. Not in a curvacious way that set the blood alight, or a sweet and endearing way that sent the heart fluttering, but in a way he imagined an Elf would be: otherworldly and ancient, with years of knowledge and secrets writ upon their star-kissed face. Frodo's face was one a hobbit could stare at for hours, and never find less entrancing or spellbinding.

Though Sam admitted now to himself the depth of his infatuation with Frodo, for Frodo to love _him_ , was something he never thought possible.

Now, the evidence was plain before him, written word-for-word in truth, that Frodo longed for love beyond a friend; for his touch to stir and sate him with carnal pleasure, promised only to one's life partner and love. To wake up with Sam beside him every morn; to be able to call Sam, 'Love'.

Sam burst into tears, burying his face in his hands and dampening his sleeves in his struggles to dry his face, until he gave himself the hiccups, at which point he took many deep breaths to stop them. They had the added effect of calming him, too.

He'd barely allowed himself to think it, ever, of a gentry sort – especially of Frodo's ilk – ever looking upon himself with such feelings, but now knowing there was confirmation, and even veritable permission to only _think_ such things...

Sam stared at the black-and-white illustration of Frodo on the page, and in his mind colored and completed it with such detail he envisioned Frodo himself. Frodo, clothed in nothing but starlight; pale and slim like a willow-wand; save for his pitch hair and azure eyes; and the flush of pink and red standing stiff between his legs, wanting for Sam.

Sam wanted Frodo as badly as he wanted Sam.

Suddenly, the echoes of the front door creaking open, and Frodo calling, “Sam?” into the smial, sent a bolt of frightening thunder down Sam's spine, and he snapped the book closed, putting it with less care than he would've liked back into its drawer. Desperately he wriggled and shoved it, trying to get it back into place while calling, “Aye, just be a minute!” before Frodo came in.

In what were the last moments before he heard footsteps coming down the hall, it snapped closed, and Sam stumbled to his feet, shaking with relief and scrubbing madly at his face. Frodo appeared in the doorway a minute after, looking curious. “I saw you weren't in the garden; is everything all right?”

Sam nodded. “Aye; many apologies. Was just looking for that book on the Elvish translations Mister Bilbo left with you; Marigold's a bit curious about learning a word or a few.”

To Sam's eternal relief, Frodo believed him. “Of course. I am sorry I don't keep this place very well organized; I know where it ought to be – generally, of course. Give me a moment to find it.”

Sam was content to take long, grateful breaths as Frodo picked through his bookshelves, grateful he'd not been caught spying. He thanked Frodo for the book when he found it, and put it in his bag to take back home at the end of the day, before going back to the garden.

That night, alone in the dark of his room – when Sam knew most certainly, the whole of the smial must be dead asleep – he shyly slipped a hand down between his legs, and thought again of Frodo, and how beautiful was his face, and thus how beautiful his body must be, too.

In his waking dream, Sam imagined Frodo's touch exploring him, with hand and mouth, and his voice whispering “ _Meleth nîn_.” as he brought Sam to climax. The sound that touched his ears in the waking world, was the echo of Frodo's name coming back to him, spoken by his own voice.

 

–

 

In the ensuing weeks, Sam was desperate to offer a hint or a sign he was as interested in Frodo as Frodo was interested in him, but it all became a chaotic whirlwind as Bag End's sale was announced and finalized, Crickhollow was purchased, and furniture began to move.

Try as Sam might to find time to spend with Frodo alone, he discovered he was either too busy listening to all he could – then later telling it to Merry and Pippin – or sitting with Frodo and hearing him reminisce sadly of everything he was leaving behind.

At those times, Sam could not bring himself to say something as insensitive, “That is nice, Mister Frodo, but I ain't never told you how badly I'd like to shag you, have I?” nor even something so subtle as, “Mayhap we could spend more time together, just you and me?”

Only on the eve of Frodo's fiftieth birthday did Sam find a single quiet moment with him, after the stress of the furniture being sent away, and Frodo nearly in tears throughout the day for Gandalf's lack of appearance.

Frodo had been standing in what would be his room for only one night longer – devoid of all furniture but the bed, which was too large to make moving it easy, and thus it was simpler to leave with the smial.

Sam had peeped in to tell him supper was ready, but was struck by the grief on Frodo's face. Frodo noticed him, and offered a bitter smile, explaining, “Just saying goodbye, you know.” He was silent for some moments afterwards, looking back at the bed, then down to the empty walk-in closet, which long ago had been Bilbo's nursery. “I never did share this room with anyone.” he said, quietly, a tear falling from his lashes. “It's so very big and empty with only one person.”

Sam opened his mouth – just behind which, his heart had leaped into his throat – and he felt the impulse to make a brazen suggestion he was right there, and knew Frodo's heart, but his voice died away when Frodo shook himself and looked up with an accepting smile. “I do hope Lobelia will appreciate it, or Lotho, or whoever stays here. And I hope it suffocates them.” he frowned suddenly, then, and looked apologetically at Sam. “I'm very sorry; that was terribly mean. I shouldn't have said it.”

Sam helplessly shrugged. “Nay, methinks it fair, for the Sackville-Bagginses.”

Frodo's face was heartbreaking, for its resilience. “Then let us not tell them so.”

 

–

 

Feeling it only just recompense for having been the veritable ringleader of the Conspiracy, Sam was building and stoking a fire in the hearth of Frodo's room in Crickhollow, after dinner, while everyone else went right to bed.

“Rascals, all three of you.” said Frodo, shaking his head and smiling with mirth. “I did think I was being ever so clever.”

“Well, you were, right enough.” said Sam, lighting the kindling. “T'was awful hard figuring you and Gandalf out at times; you were clever, we just were more determined.”

“Mmhm; you the most of all, it seems, being the holder and giver of secrets, as it were.”

Sam knew Frodo was teasing him, but blushed nevertheless. “We were only worried for you, and as you might say, still following Gandalf's instruction – and Gildor's, too.”

Frodo smiled at him – the first genuine smile he'd managed in more than a week. He opened his mouth to say something, before the light in his eyes dimmed. “I wonder if we shall see Gandalf again.”

Sam washed the soot from his hands in the water basin. “I expect so; mayhap he's been held up by sommat more dire. More Black Riders?”

Frodo shivered, hugging himself, and Sam felt an urge to pull him into his own arms. “I hope not. I don't know how much of a match they'd make for Gandalf, but nevertheless I don't want them troubling him. Nor do I want there to be more of them than we've already seen!”

“Aye, that would be awful.” Sam worried and wrung the hand towel until his hands were quite dry – then, noticing what he'd done, made an effort to smooth it before he put it away.

Now that the fire was lit, and they'd declared a start to their journey before dawn, Sam had no reason to stay in Frodo's room, yet he was reluctant to leave. All the professions that had been bubbling from his heart resurfaced to near his lips, and though he had little idea of the effect it might have on the night, he felt a growing fear he might be running out of time to speak his mind.

He waited, when Frodo offered him a tired, grateful smile. “Well, in any case, Sam, I'm glad you're with me – even with your whole Conspiracy accompanying us. I don't expect any of us will be much enjoying this very soon, but... I'm grateful to not be alone.” He stepped near Sam, taking his hands between his own, and for the first time Sam could see how frightened he was. “Thank you, for all you've done, and all you still are doing. I don't know what I would without you.” He turned Sam's hands over to see his palms, and gazed at them thoughtfully, allowing his fingertips to brush the callouses found there. After which, he gathered them in a gentle squeeze, closing his eyes remorsefully, before opening them, to look again at Sam with a brave smile.

It seemed imminent this would be goodnight, and Sam was near to bursting with agitation and any desperate thought that would stave off their goodbyes. Something in him would not let the night go without saying a word – after all, they both felt the same way! What was so bloody difficult about saying so?

Frodo made to step back, to allow Sam to be dismissed, but Sam gathered up his hands again and held them, to his surprise. “Ehm- Frodo,” said Sam, scrabbling in his head for any sensible explanation, “I- I'm more glad than I can say I'm going with you, and not just for the Elves-” _Spit it out, you bloody ninnyhammer._ “- I- when I were looking for things for the Conspiracy, I found bits like as not I oughtn't have, but I ain't said nothing about them to no one.” Frodo blanched, and his eyes grew wide with growing horror. “It ain't bad!” Sam promised, pulling Frodo's reluctant hands against his chest. “I- most it was, was the first draft for the bill of sale for Bag End, but- but I did find yer book-”

Frodo was struggling to withdraw, his face awash in ashamed red as he tried to look away, “Sam- I'm so sorry- I've been meaning to get rid of that stupid-”

“I ain't done yet,” Sam soothed, loosening his hands for Frodo to retreat back a step, “all I wanted to say was – if- if you're still feeling that way – I wish you'd gone and said sooner.” Frodo stared, and Sam felt his own cheeks warming. “'Cause I feel the same for you. I can't write it down so pretty, but... I'd be right happy if every morn I were waking up with you.

“Ehm- that is, I love you, Frodo. Sir!”

The realization came over Frodo slowly, leaving Sam to flounder in growing embarrassment, as the only thing to be heard was the crackling of the fire. “You love me?” he said at last, eyeing Sam as if he were some strange thing that had walked out of a dream.

“Aye. And I'm awful sorry I didn't say sommat sooner. I didn't know it were ever possible for you to feel the same- that is, if you still do- and- so, I didn't say nothing.” Sam looked down at his toes, too shy to look at Frodo.

There was another silence, and for the direction of his gaze, Sam missed the joy blooming on Frodo's face, and the tears wetting his eyes. “Oh, Sam- don't ever, ever apologize.” Of a sudden he was up against Sam's chest, a hair's breadth from letting their noses touch, searching Sam's face for permission. “I- I love you, too. I only thought _you_ could never feel so for _me_.”

Tentatively, Sam's arms came up in the embrace he'd wanted to take Frodo in, earlier, and touched his nose to Frodo's. “Well, I do, if it's all right?”

“Dearest Samwise,” said Frodo, “it's more than all right.” and they kissed – hard – delighted to at the last to be able to give themselves to one another, in the fulfillment of a dream.

The moment they began kissing, not for the world did they want to stop, and as if making up for lost time, their hands were everywhere: tangled in hair; clutching backs and rumps; and running over chests and caressing faces.

They only stopped with a gasp, when a shuffle of feat brought their swollen desires against one another, and Frodo swallowed. “I-I'm sorry for the suddenness of this,” he stroked Sam's cheek with a thumb to ease him; to say he was far from uncomfortable with the discovery, “and it's not at all what I've dreamed, but- I'm frightened this may well be the last bed I shall ever own, and the last night I shall ever see it.

“For tonight, would you share it with me, Sam?”

Were it not for every nerve in his body straining for more of Frodo's touch, Sam might've broken down in tears at the offer. He did cry, but continued on to say, “Oh, yes- _please_ , yes.”

He whimpered as Frodo stepped away, but only to take his hand and lead him over to the side of the bed, before digging in a bag on the nightstand, and pulling out a bottle of oil. “Are you sure?” he asked a final time.

“Frodo,” Sam was shaking, “I'm gonna split me trousers if they don't come off in the next while.”

In spite of every emotion struggling for dominance of him, Frodo laughed, and returned to Sam, pushing off his braces and slipping his shirt from his shoulders, before kneeling to unbutton his trousers. Sam whimpered at each touch of pressure, and struggled not to push his hips forward as the placket of his breeches came loose, and Frodo then hooked both his briefs and trousers, pushing them down to his ankles, after which Sam hastily stepped out of them.

Frodo sat back, eyes wide and glittering as he looked Sam up and down. “Ah,” he sighed.

Sam felt hot all the way down to his toes. “What you expected?” he breathed, as Frodo stood up, now looking almost hungry.

“Bigger, actually,” he whispered, giving Sam a gentle squeeze, causing Sam's hips to jerk forward as he yelped.

“This ain't hardly fair!” he protested in a hoarse whisper, “When you is as still dressed!”

“Then let's fix that.”

In a flurry of hands and cotton, Frodo soon stood without a stitch of clothes, and Sam decided he was with certainty the most beautiful creature in the whole of Middle-earth.

After that, they didn't stop touching one another until dawn, falling in a tangle on the bed in a delighted and moaning pair, kissing wherever they found bare skin, and fumbling for the bottle.

Frodo ended up beneath Sam, his hair spread on a pillow in such a way, it surrounded his head like a midnight shroud. Sam was illuminated from behind by the fire, and a rose-gold light touched his skin and hair as he straddled Frodo.

Oiled and desperately hard with want, they began shifting and rubbing and pushing against each other, squeezing and stroking with hands where their members didn't touch, searching for the most perfect and delightful fit. They gasped and squirmed and gripped a thigh or the bed sheet, moaning one another's names and encouraging every pleasurable touch.

Sam spilled first, the vision of Frodo tinged golden-pink by the firelight, and lying back so beautifully, with such love and need in his eyes, all together too much for him to  
stand. He felt Frodo writhing harder and faster beneath him as he came, and at the end of his own climax, Frodo spilled. Frodo, whose blood singing with pleasure for the satisfied warmth between his legs, and Sam riding him so beautifully.

Sam drunkenly slid off to one side of Frodo, to sit on his own foot and a hip, staring at the evidence of their love on Frodo's chest, and Frodo's love still shining in his eyes. “Oh.” Sam slurred. “If you ain't the beautifulest thing.”

Frodo's laugh came more as an exhausted wheeze, his pale and wet chest gleaming as it heaved. “No more than you, Sam-love.”

Feeling still responsible – now for them both, more evenly – Sam dug for a kerchief from the pouch on the nightstand, and with as much precision as his love-addled mind could manage, wiped them both dry, before collapsing at Frodo's side. “Love you.”

Frodo rolled onto his side, and nestled up against Sam's, settling his head on Sam's shoulder, and cuddling closer as Sam wrapped an arm around him. “I love you too, _meleth nîn_.” Sam's breath caught at the name. “That's Elvish for 'my love'. Do you like it?”

Sam nodded fervently. “Awful much; t'is- t'is beautiful, only a mite less than you.”

Frodo nosed Sam's chest. “And near as beautiful as you.”

They fell to quiet, then, beginning to heed the call of sleep, and the early morning ahead of them, but Frodo said after a while, soberly, “I'm sorry this may be the only bed of mine we ever share. Shall we tell Merry and Pippin, so they know to expect this? Hiding would be so difficult, and... I don't want to hide.”

Sam nodded, pulling the comforter up around them. “I don't want to hide, neither. We can tell 'em on the morrow, or whenever seems right. And a bed don't make no nevermind to me; could be a pile of leaves and I'd be happy, so long as you were there.

“And there's not any knowing if we'll be coming back. We yet may.”

For the first time, Frodo considered the thought of Crickhollow as a true home, more than a mere facade. He knew there was no retrieving Bag End (he expected by now for Lotho to have either taken a wife or adopted a dozen children to secure it forever in his family), but... as he thought about it, Crickhollow could in the end, be a place to love. It was much smaller than he was used to, but perhaps cozier for it, and he still had a study, with a view out to the garden.

“Would you stay, if we did come back?”

Sam snorted. “Of course; I ain't gone and had all me dreams come true, just to go leaving 'em. I like it best wherever you are, so long as you want me to stay.”

“I'd like you to stay forever,” said Frodo, tangling his legs with Sam's, “if you want to.”

“And I do, at that. Crickhollow ain't so bad. Garden needs a bit of work, but nothing a good spring couldn't fix. And you'll be here besides, and there's a bit of room for growing.”

“Growing what?”

Sam shifted, clearing his throat. “Well- if there were any, you know- I'd been thinking- little'uns, if you were ever wanting any.”

Frodo very nearly giggled. “Oh, Sam, you are a romantic. I think it's a little soon for that, and certainly not right now, but... but if we come back, and I've had you to myself for a while... I think I could be persuaded.”

“Only condition is if there's any lads, one of 'em's got to be named Frodo.”

“Wouldn't that get confusing?” Frodo asked in delight. “Doubly so if there was a little Sam, as well.”

“There's your fix, of course; Little Frodo, or Frodo-lad; not the same as Frodo-love.”

Sam could feel Frodo smiling against his chest. “You're a delight, Samwise, and for it I adore you. I haven't felt this hopeful of anything in weeks. I think there's room in Crickhollow for a Frodo-lad and a Sam-lad.”

Sam hummed, nosing Frodo's hair. “Of course. Now, we'll be all right, after all this. You'll see.”

“Yes, I believe we will, in the end. In any case, I hope it very much.”

They exchanged murmurs of love a final time, before Frodo drifted peacefully to sleep.

In his dream, he found himself not in Crickhollow, but back at Bag End, out in the garden with Sam. A fair-haired child was sitting on Sam's shoulders – the both of them laughing – as the spring sun shone down upon them all, embracing the world in a golden glow, with the whole of the garden in bloom.


End file.
